


Apane Do Haath

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Mahabharata fics [5]
Category: Mahabharata - Vyasa
Genre: Alternate Universe, Meta, Not A Fix-It, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 06:29:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: In another rendering, Bhima does not hide underneath a cloth in the darkened dance hall of Virata. Draupadi herself is there, unconcealed by anything other than the shadows, and as the stench of wine precedes Keechak, she steps into the moonlight, all coy smiles and swaying hips.“Would you not like a cup of wine first?” she whispers. She pours one for him, her eyes never leaving his.





	Apane Do Haath

**Author's Note:**

> Title means “own two hands” in Hindi.

In another rendering, Bhima does not hide underneath a cloth in the darkened dance hall of Virata. Draupadi herself is there, unconcealed by anything other than the shadows, and as the stench of wine precedes Keechak, she steps into the moonlight, all coy smiles and swaying hips.

Keechak grins, and makes for her immediately, but she dances out of reach, as seductive as any dancing girl. She may be the queen of queens, but Draupadi is also wife to five men and has lived twelve years in the forest and nearly one year as a servant. Time has taught her the value of adapting, and she plays the role she must fulfill now to perfection.

“Would you not like a cup of wine first?” she whispers, gesturing to the carafe and the cups laid out on a table nearby. She pours one for him, her eyes never leaving his.

Judging by the smell, Keechak has already consumed several cups before arriving, but he snatches it from her hand and downs it in one gulp, his eyes raking over her body. She offers him another cup, and he settles himself on the divan as he drinks it. He smiles again, even wider.

And then promptly collapses on the divan with a prodigious snore.

Draupadi watches as he slumbers, his breathing settling into a steady, if loud, rhythm. It had been easier than she expected, to procure enough of a sedative to knock out even the mightiest commander in all of Matsya. It would have been even easier had she called upon her mantle as Queen Sudeshna’s favorite sairandhri, but she had remained anonymous at the apothecary’s shop, a veil obscuring her face. Nothing must tie Malini to what happens next.

She walks, trance-like, to the divan where his sleeping form lies. She spreads a hand on his chest, surprisingly warm and solid beneath her fingers, like-- like any other man’s chest might be while asleep. Had she expected his chest to be cold as stone? Draupadi presses her grip firmly on his chest, as his snores rumble on beneath. One breath, two, five, ten.

And then in one fluid motion, she slips a knife from beneath her sari and slits his throat.

Keechak’s eyes fly open, but Draupadi is prepared for this. She quickly smothers his mouth and nose with one hand, and with her other hand, twists the knife even further into his throat. A terrible gurgle escapes his mouth, but she knows she has the advantage. Even his strength is no match for his half-drugged state paired with a woman’s wrath.

He thrashes about, blows landing upon her as she hacks away at his muscled body. She imagines it is Duryodhan, Dushasan, Shakuni, every man who has ever hurt her (a classification that may well include her husbands) as she stabs again and again, widens the gash in his throat even more. Blood, so much blood, so much blood. It spurts up and trickles onto the divan and the floor. He coughs it into her face, and his body and her hands are quickly becoming slick with it. The coppery tang of iron is strong in her nose, and in the frenzy of her assault, she imagines she can even taste it.

It takes a while for him to die -- not that Draupadi minds. His coughs are becoming feebler, and his spasms less frequent. He moans and he gives a frail hiccup, and then he simply does not move.

She turns away from the blood-drenched corpse; she is already relishing the fine spectacle it will be in the morning. She pads over to the dark corner of the dance hall, where she had strategically placed a bucket of water, a washcloth, and fresh clothing. Quicky does she peel off her bloodstained clothing and scrub herself clean of it, including from her tangled mane. Much as she revels in the warm feeling of it against her neck, it would not do for Malini to be seen with blood in her hair the same morning after her famed molester is found dead.

Once she is clean, she gathers up the soiled clothing in a bundle and ventures out into the hallways. Nearly a year’s time in the kingdom of Virata has taught her how easy it is for a servant to become invisible, and she sneaks down undiscovered to the kitchens, where the fires in the ovens are kept burning all night and day. Draupadi slicks the clothes in oil and then casts them upon the flames. She watches them burn, poking the wood and adjusting the fire as needed, until they have disintegrated into ash. Then she tugs her veil over her face and tiptoes back through the hall, up the stairs, and into her bed in Queen Sudeshna’s quarters with nary a peep.

* * *

Who is to say what is the truth is and what is not? Sometimes, motivations and reasoning can be smudged, or forgotten, or rewritten entirely. When the epics themselves are not sure whether it was Arjun or Karna Draupadi loved most, so many questions remain.

Does Draupadi still go to Bhima this time around, only for him to be unmoved by her tears? Either because he does not wish to put himself at risk, or he estimates his Panchaali’s humiliation less than the possibility of discovery and another twelve years in exile.

Or does Draupadi insist on performing the grim honor herself? Does she take a leaf out of her brother Shikandhi’s book and avenge her humiliation with her own two hands, rather than letting a man do it for her? Perhaps Bhima, who knows the cadences of her mind most intimately of all her husbands, advises that she do it herself, that taking control of her fate will be a sweeter balm than any revenge wrought by someone else.

Or does she not go to him at all? Perhaps she cannot find his quarters in the labyrinthine palace, or perhaps she assumes he is too loyal to his elder brother and does not waste her time imploring him. Or, as the kinder bards sing, Draupadi does not wish to put him in danger and does the deed herself?

Why does she not opt for poison, the far subtler and safer option? Was a man of Keechak’s constitution too powerful to be defeated by poison? Or does she long to hold the blade in her own hands, to feel the blood bubbling up and smearing beneath her fingers, to hear his death rattles with her own ears?

A woman herself wielding the knife would be a monstrous thing in the eyes of many, but then she does not care. She is not Sita, born of the solid, steady earth; she is Yagnaseni. Like her predecessor, she will accompany her husbands faithfully into exile and bind herself to them, but there are some things that will not be denied to her, and some things that cannot escape the scorch of her wrath.

Even Sita chose to be swallowed up by the earth rather than return to the husband who abandoned her.

* * *

However tangled the many threads of the truth’s versions are, they all twine together to form the same knot. The Kauravas still sniff out the Pandavas, whether they divine correctly that it was Draupadi or they wrongly suspect Bhima, and attack the Virata kingdom. All attempts at peace still fail. Blood soaks the ground at Kurukshetra, where every law of war is broken and Kali grasps the world in his claws afterwards.

But in this vein, at least Draupadi herself spills the first blood that her hair is bathed in.


End file.
